


Gathered Safely In

by Sour_Idealist



Category: Girl Genius
Genre: Celebrations, Flash Fic, Multi, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2015-03-26
Packaged: 2018-03-19 17:01:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3617445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sour_Idealist/pseuds/Sour_Idealist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four flashes of what an Armistice might mean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gathered Safely In

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually almost two years old - it was originally on Tumblr, and I never crossposted it - but, as I've been writing fic in this fandom anew lately (it'll be up once beta'd), I thought I'd get it belatedly up here. 
> 
> No warnings of any kind; title from Leonard Cohen's "Dance Me to the End of Love."

Over the Mechanicsburg sky, the Torchmen dance with the fireworks, brilliant sprays of red and peacock-blue among the stars. It’s past midnight and the roar of celebration – music, cheering, the miscellaneous crashing chaos of happy Jaegers – is still welling up from the streets, a little drunker and scruffier than before. Agatha has already danced with half the town in the main square, trailed by Violetta and an army of her little clanks in case anyone got any bright ideas about assassination; Gil and Tarvek have danced with maybe a quarter-each, when people could spare a break from watching their lady.

“You’ll be a fine Storm King for her,” a barely-sixteen girl in a too-big dress tells Tarvek earnestly, and on the other side of the square he can see an old grandfather clapping Gil on the back and – the lamplight is just bright enough for Tarvek to read his lips – saying “Well, she’s sure picked herself a pair of bright ones!” Every time he, Gil or Agatha so much as smiles at each other, there’s a slowly spreading ripple of Jaeger-ish snorts, cackles, and smirks; outside the taverns, various people are complaining about losing sure bets and getting a round of drinks out of the winners for their pains. Agatha comes whirling down the line of dancers, passed from hand to hand in a swirl of bright green skirt and bright gold hair and bright-flushed smiles, and Tarvek thinks, _Maybe…_

\---

“If _one more person,_ ” Agatha grunts, perfectly still as Tarvek feeds the rich red laces of her dress through their respective eyelets and does not, but _could,_ bend to kiss the smooth soft skin of her back, “tells how important it is that this go off perfectly –”

“I’ll help,” Gil mutters, shirt falling nearly to the edge of his drawers as he picks through the pile of fabric on Tarvek’s table, light catching the hair on his legs. “Tarvek, are there still pins in this?”

“Of course not,” Tarvek sniffs, and tugs one of Agatha’s off-the-shoulder sleeves a little straighter. “And if it still doesn’t fit over your shoulders, you’re picking out a different fabric, because that’s the last of _that_ one –”

Ten minutes later, Tarvek is tugging Gil’s cravat straight while Agatha leans against the makeup-table and smirks at them with a lipstick forgotten in her hand, the mismatched array of mirrors bouncing the three of them back and forth and a thousand angles into the reflected distance, and Tarvek thinks, _maybe…_

\---

The music room is full of the scents of cinnamon and pine, and the Castle, despite being generally snobbish about fireplaces, has agreed to tolerate a small, bright pile of logs that crackle in gentle counterpoint to the sounds Agatha and Gil are coaxing out of the grand piano. They’re pressed together on the horsehair bench, snowflakes not quite melted on the back of Gil’s collar, Agatha’s hair damp and sticking to her face. She still has grease under her nails and Gil’s knuckles are still split from a bit of a brawl with an emissary’s servants last Thursday, and they don’t even seem to need to look at each other as their hands spring and skim across the keys.

“Hey, Tarvek, sing with us,” Agatha calls before he’s even got his coat off, glancing over for a split second before she’s back at the keys. Gil nods, tongue poking out the corner of his mouth as the soaring notes coalesce into a recognizable tune under all their flourishes, and Tarvek swallows hard and opens his mouth: “There are gains for all our losses, there are balms for all our pain…” Agatha nods, that particular Agatha-nod that involves every part of her body from the waist up, while Gil grins and speeds up the tempo a little, and Tarvek thinks, _maybe._

\---

It’s a cool night in Mechanicsburg – of course it is, it’s only spring – but there are too many people milling through the square and too much dancing going on for it to be _too_ cold. Tarvek sucks the last bite of mimmoth from the end of the long wood skewer, licks a smudge of grease from the corner of his mouth, and leans back, tapping the end of the stick against the handle of Gil’s tankard in time with the music.

“Stow it, Sturmvoraus,” Gil says, lazy and unconcerned with a bit of beer-foam clinging to his upper lip, and Tarvek is just weighing whether he wants to either point it out or clean it off for him when Agatha slips through the crowd, trailed by an army of clanks and hobbling slightly despite the quality of her shoes.

“Zeetha should’ve had me _dance,”_ she grumbles, sliding onto the bench on the far side of the table. Gil’s arm isn’t even all the way across her shoulders before she’s resting her hand over Tarvek’s, lacing their fingers together, thumb coming to rest gently over the scab from the lab accident earlier this week. Under the table, Gil’s knee bumps idly against his, and Tarvek thinks _maybe –_

“Happy Armistice,” he murmurs. Gil blinks at him, smiles, and Agatha nods.

“Here’s to another year,” she says, and Tarvek thinks _yes._


End file.
